Sunday, April 3, 2016

Writing my way into the Dawn of Spring

Thinking back on my time at a writer's conference that I went to this year has been so good for me. I had no idea that there were so many ways of writing, of comprehending what you write, or even that there are different genres of writing. I'm sure that you smart and talented people knew this, but it was all new to me.

I'm one of those writers who have moments of inspiration, where I suddenly have a lightbulb go off in my head and I sit down and scribble out my thoughts and it just all comes together in one brilliant post; and I feel so accomplished and happy. I hit send, and away it goes on my Facebook, racking up views and likes (or not) and my feeling of accomplishment is euphoric.

Then there's the spaces (and they are the huge spaces in time, up to a year or more) where I don't get inspiration at all. I see the sun in the blue sky and feel it on my skin and the breeze blowing on my face, and it does nothing for my heart. It's kind of like dusk on a grey winter evening.

There's no emotions. No joy. No tears, either.

It's just, empty. Or more like;

Blank.

Writer's block? I was told that there is no such thing. Writers block does not exist. It's either a lack of sleep, low blood sugar, hunger, or a need for fresh air. There is always something to write about, even if it's crazy things like an ant crawling across your floor, or the dogwood petal stuck on your windshield, or sticky fingerprints on your computer screen. There is always something to write, they told me emphatically.

But what if my heart is empty? My thoughts are numbingly lifeless? Or what if one single thought is clamoring piercingly through the cold night air of my consciousness, and it's too difficult, too painful to begin to articulate on paper or the keyboard? Could I write then?

Maybe not.

But I could mutter. I might even be able to stutter.

And would you know, God loves those kinds of prayers? You might not even think of them as prayers. Or even sentences. But the halting words, the frequent pauses are more precious than gold to Him because they are from His child. Everything I feel and think is important to Him.

I didn't used to believe that. But I sure do today.

I communicate so much more, and better now, both in prayer and with my precious family. I feel more and hear more, too.

I love hearing my little girl chattering to me from her place on the living room floor, surrounded by her mess of sticker dolls. My tall 9 year old son as he crashes through the front door with the ruddy glow of the outdoors scented with the blooming daffodils and freshly cut grass. My strong, loving husband as he opens the leather bible at the dinner table, reading the words of Jesus to his little family.

There are words all around me. Both good and not so good. But I'm learning to adjust my listening ear to the good, and filter out the negative.

To see the beauty in the rays of the sun, the happiness in the smell of cut grass, joy in the laugh of my beautiful children, security and love in the embrace of my husband. To learn to know without a doubt, that God is good. All the time.